


Be Forever Fallen

by timidghosts



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Military Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidghosts/pseuds/timidghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He had given his soul to an empire that could, at any moment, cast it into the sea.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>AU in which James was never discharged from the navy and Thomas was never committed to the asylum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_"Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n"_  
\- John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

  
  


_Nassau, New Providence Island_  
July 16, 1715

 

“One day,” her father once told her when she was very young and only half-listening, “all of this will come to an end.”

And then he’d left. The end, it would seem, hadn’t come soon enough for him.

At the time, the words were spoken in a quiet moment of doubt from a man so unused to so much responsibility and Eleanor had taken little notice of them. Still, as she grew older and her own responsibilities grew, she began to recognize what nearly every other man and woman on this island seemed unable, or unwilling, to acknowledge: that one day, not so far into the future, England would take what was hers. It was an ever present concern, to be sure, but in the chaos of running the largest illicit trade operation the island had ever seen, it was one that lived largely in the back of her mind, right next to that little part of her that wondered why her father had left her and when, if ever, she would see him again.

She should have known, then, that when the day finally came that England took back its island, her father would not only be among them, but would lead them straight to her doorstep. Like the traitorous shit that he was.

They came in longboats, surging forth and taking the beach within a matter of hours. Eleanor knew as soon as the ships were spotted on the horizon that the island would be taken before the day was over. Up on the hill the fort loomed, inexplicably silent. And, by some foul stroke of luck, the _Walrus_ and the _Ranger_ were both out hunting, neither expected to return for some days. Those were the two crews most likely to offer resistance. Without them, none of the other crews would stand up to the navy, not when it had sent three warships and more firepower and they could ever hope to match.

Eleanor struggled to remain calm as she considered her new reality, and the role that her father had surely played in all of this, but the fury on her face was plain to see as the double doors opened and in streamed a number of men dressed finely in brocade coats, sweat pouring down from beneath their ridiculous wigs of varying shades of white and gray. These men were followed closely by her father and Mr. Scott, who looked nearly as angry as she surely did. One other man trailed behind them, wearing a blue and gold naval uniform and an indecipherable look upon his face, shutting the doors silently behind him.

“Eleanor,” her father said in lieu of a proper greeting. This was the first word he’d spoken to her in nearly five years and it was said almost warningly. “As I’m sure you have surmised by now, the Crown has sought fit to take back New Providence Island, to which it rightfully belongs.”

His little speech sounded rehearsed and she looked around for a moment at all the strange men staring down at her with cold eyes and contempt. They meant to be intimidating, she knew, but all it did was fuel her rage.

“ _My_ illegal enterprise?” She spat back. “I suppose you have forgotten in your long absence whom it was that began this operation? Just as well that you forget your role here as you’ve contributed little enough to it!”

Several of the men were clearly taken aback by her tone, drawing themselves up a little, their chests puffing out as they stared her down. They did not like to be challenged.

“But let us not pretend,” she continued, her voice nearly shaking in anger, “that you have not bought off every single one of these men standing here before us. I suppose you have purchased for yourself the governorship as well?”

 _That_ was what she had been expecting all along whenever she had thought of the possibility of this moment coming to pass. That her father’s bribes would eventually see him back here as governor, lording over Nassau, over _her_ , as though he had actually achieved something.

Instead of confirmation, however, she heard the sound of a throat clearing politely, and Eleanor tore her furious gaze away from her father and focused it instead on the only one among the bewigged strangers crowding around her desk that wasn’t looking at her with some form of derision. To her surprise, he was looking at her instead with something like sympathy on his face as he fixed his large blue eyes on hers and said only, “that privilege falls to me, actually.”

She studied him for a moment. He was tall, perhaps the tallest person in the room, but he was looking down at her kindly. It did a little to calm her, but not enough.

“And who the fuck are you?” She asked sharply.

To her surprise he actually smiled at that, though a few of the men gasped in shock that she would address him so. She turned her attention back to the other men that she did not know, five of them who were looking utterly scandalized, and the naval officer, still standing near the doors, his face still stern, though she was almost certain that it contained the smallest hint of amusement upon it.

“My name is Thomas Hamilton,” said the taller man, still smiling warmly. “Newly appointed governor of the Bahama Islands.”


	2. I

_Nassau_  
July 16, 1715

 

It was unexpectedly awkward, catching sight of him. James watched as Thomas stood in the sunshine with a wide smile upon his face. He had taken his first step onto the island and already he looked as though he belonged there. But when he tore his gaze away from the little town, the fort, the palm trees, and all the new things that there were to see here, he turned to look at James. James, who was standing stiffly, uncomfortable with such an easy victory, and unable to shake his apprehension now that they had finally, after all these years, achieved their goal.

All at once Thomas’s face grew darker, just a little, as if the sun had started to pale. It was a strange thing to see a man, so alive with triumph and promise, light up as though from within, and then watch as that light was extinguished moments later by bitter memories.

Thomas’s was the last longboat to reach the shore. The other men with him, merchants and investors turned dignitaries, were looking around with expressions of concern and alarm on their faces as they stood uneasy beneath a too-hot-sun. These were the men who had made this entire undertaking possible, and yet James couldn’t help but detest the very sight of them. They were, all of them, irresolute and full of greed. Secretly, James relished their trepidation as they glanced around at the rows of tents and half-formed huts that lined the beach.

Around them, soldiers had already begun to read aloud the offers of pardons as the people of Nassau listened with looks of resignation on their faces. It was a fair deal. It was the deal that Thomas had worked so long and hard to be able to offer, and it was a deal that they had paid a heavy price for. Ten years had passed since they first presented this very proposal: pardons for all who would take them. Ten long, difficult years in which James had spent the majority away from Thomas and everything that they had begun to build together.

When James had stepped on to the beach for the first time in nearly a decade, he had expected to see an isolated island in a state of decay. But what he saw instead suggested a thriving community. While these other men, in all their finery, looked unhappily at the disarray, James could still see its potential.  Standing there, he could already see what this community had managed to build, and he knew that the men around him only saw what they wished to tear down.

He looked to Thomas again, still standing a little away from the rest of their group, still taking the time to really take everything in. His eyes were roving carefully over the dilapidated buildings, the filthy men and half-dressed women. James wasn’t sure that Thomas has ever seen such as spectacle in his life, but he also knew how Thomas’s mind worked. He was building a picture of how things were, wanting to understand it. He wanted to know how the people here lived, not because he had any interest in changing them, just in making their lives better, making this place better, for all of them.

The two of them locked eyes once more, and though it had been a distant ten years James knew exactly what Thomas was thinking.

 _We did it_ , his eyes seemed to say, though his smile turned a little sad again.

 _Yes,_ James thought has he forced himself to look away. _It’s been a long journey, but we’re here._

 

* * *

 

_London, England_  
December 2, 1705

 

James’s face fell as he followed the admiral into his private office. As soon as Hennessey stepped aside, James saw who was waiting for them: Alfred Hamilton. His pale eyes followed James closely as he entered, and at once James knew that the admiral has not heard a single world that he had said only moments before.

James had always liked to believe that it had been his resolve, his tenacity, that had gotten him where he was. It was his intelligence, however, that had given him the ability to spin the most eloquent of arguments and see him through whatever obstacle, whatever circumstance, whatever odds. James McGraw was a man unused to losing arguments, and a man who did not know how to yield could make for a dangerous opponent. Even to his superiors.

Thus far into his career, James had been given little cause to challenge those superiors. His determination, as well as his intelligence, had been a tool to them, not an impediment, and he had been rewarded for it. James didn’t know when it was that this had changed. He was unable to pinpoint the exact moment that these tools had become Thomas’s to wield instead, only that they were and James had been prepared to risk everything for his cause without even thinking of the outcome should they lose.

This all changed the moment he entered the admiral’s office. The earl didn’t even bother with greetings, just a cordial nod of his head in Hennessey’s direction before he focused his watery eyes back on the lieutenant. James steeled himself for what he was certain would come next: the disregard for what he had been working towards, what _Thomas_ had been working towards, and the news that all of this would be ripped away from them.

In truth there was a part of him that had been expecting this since the night Alfred Hamilton stormed out of the house all those months ago. But they were so close to seeing this through and that unyielding resolve was nagging away at him.

“Your time with my son has come to an end,” the earl all but barked out as the door shut behind James.

The moment he said it, James’s heart seemed to stop. His eyes shot from Lord Ashbourne to the admiral and then back again. _We’ve been so careful_ , he thought desperately as his panic grew. _He couldn’t possibly know_. And yet, doubt began to take form in his mind, he thought back to all the times he and Thomas had stood too close to each other, or their gaze had lingered just a little too long. If he was truly honest with himself, he had suspected Peter Ashe of knowing about them for some time, though Thomas had always assured him that he was being paranoid, that they had nothing to fear from Peter.

He felt the blood start to drain from his face at the prospect that they really _did_ know. That it was more than just their plans for Nassau on the line. It was his career, perhaps even his life, that could be in jeopardy.

 “Sir,” James began when he finally found his voice, turning to Hennessey again, fully prepared to deny all accusations, to accuse the earl of vindictiveness and spite.

This was, as it turned out, wholly unnecessary.

“You are being reassigned,” Hennessey explained. The admiral shot a sidelong glance over to where the earl was seated, and there was not a small amount of warning in the look. He turned back to James and continued, “this war is draining all of our resources. As it stands now we haven’t the the ships, nor the manpower, never mind the money to finance such a thing. It is simply impossible to embark on an undertaking of this magnitude for something that promises to return comparatively little reward."

“Sir,” James said again, this time with more defiance in his voice than even he was expecting. He was trying to maintain his composure as both relief and disappointment coursed through him, and with everything falling apart around him, this was no easy task.  “What we stand to gain is no small thing. If we can take that island we’ll have a foothold— ” 

Alfred Hamilton cut him off before he could even finish his argument. It was the same one that he’d made before, but it was one that James was prepared to argue until he was blue in the face.

“The truth is,” Lord Ashbourne said, more brusquely than ever, and with enough conviction to finally lift himself out of the chair that he had been sitting in, “there is a man named Richard Guthrie who, in the weeks following Governor Thompson’s expulsion, has proven himself instrumental to the continued prosperity of Nassau, such as it is. All commerce on the island is now under the control of the Guthrie Trading Company. He has made it apparent to myself and the other Lords Proprietor that it is, quite frankly, no longer in our best interest to intervene.”

At last it dawned on James that this battle was truly lost. With the Lords Propritor being bribed by this Guthrie person, and with the navy in such dire need of resources and manpower, there was not an argument on earth that would sway them.

It was truly over.

“Besides all that,” Hennessey said, more kindly this time as he placed a hand on James’s shoulder, “the navy is in need of good commanders." 

When James looked at him he saw, to his surprise, a small amount of compassion on the admiral’s face. Hennessey reached over to his desk, picked up a sealed letter and handed it to James with a smile.

“Your new orders,” he explained.

James unfolded the paper carefully, and as he read it his eyes traveled over the words in disbelief.

“Congratulations, Captain,” Hennessey said as James looked back up at him with astonishment written all over his face.

James was no stranger to command. He had captained the sloop that had taken him to Nassau and back, but to be given the full rank as well as command of a frigate was not something that he had been expecting in the slightest. Not now, not when he was so sure that he was being punished. As pleased as this should make him, as proud as he should be, he couldn’t help but feel saddened by it, by the sacrifice that this new position would entail.

There were few certainties for men like him. He had spent so much of his life surrounded by the sea, and oceans were capricious things. When a man spends his life on the water, with no solid ground in sight, stability becomes but a fantasy. But somehow Thomas had become solid ground for him, and the promise of a better life was one that he had found himself believing in without even truly realizing until this moment what it even meant. That stubborn resolve of his was more than just sentiment, it was the steel in his spine. It had wrapped its fist around his heart and held him firm. It was the knowledge that he could be _more_. More than the navy, more than regulations and obedience.

But for the first time since he was a child he felt truly powerless. This was the deal he had made, all those years ago when he swore his oath. He was an instrument to be wielded as England saw fit. More than he belonged to Thomas, he belonged to them, and they would not let him forget it. He was not to go to Nassau to help build a better world, but instead to Carolina to protect the earl’s interests there. Hennessey spoke of the navy’s need, but James wasn’t fooled. He knew that this had all been orchestrated by the earl.

“It is imperative that you embark as soon as possible, of course,” Hennessey continued as though the weight of what this meant hadn’t just come crashing down on him. “Manning the ship quickly is the most pressing concern. I am aware, however, that you have a sizable following so I am confident that you will be able to set sail immediately.”

James nodded absently. He was popular with his men; many would go where he did.

The admiral squared his shoulders as he lifted his eyes to look directly into James’s and said, “this assignment will be a long one. It may be years before you see home again.”

In an instant, James’s face became a mask. He hardened himself then, for it was the only thing he could do. He began to shut out emotion, frustration, anything other than obedience. Still, the lie didn’t come easily.

“The service is my home, sir.”

 

* * *

 

_Nassau_  
July 28, 1715

 

There were few homes left on the island not in total disrepair, and fewer still fit for the new governor. While Thomas and Miranda managed to find one that needed only a little work, it took nearly two weeks for it, having been left empty for some years and completely ransacked, to be fully restored.

Miranda was the first to enter after the repairs had finally been completed, anxious to see her new home; anxious to have a home at all after months at sea. The sound of her shoes echoed throughout the empty house as she strode over the wooden floor. When she reached the other end of the entrance hall she turned back around to look at James and Thomas who were standing, shoulders nearly touching, just inside the doorway, the both of them smiling back at her. James’s smile was tight, a little shy even, but Thomas’s was wide and warm.

“When was the last time we were alone together, just the three of us?” Miranda asked, her smile growing a little wider.

Thomas, almost pointedly not looking at James though their hands were only inches apart, looked upwards for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said, and he made a show of trying to recall, as if the three of them didn’t know exactly when it was that they were last together. “Was it two years ago?”

James realized with a pang that while he had once been so comfortable in their company, he now found himself uneasy. At times it even felt as though he was meeting them again for the first time. But then he’d catch sight of Thomas’s bright eyes, or Miranda’s sly smile, and he knew that it was worse. These were not strangers, but people he still cared for deeply, perhaps the only people he truly cared for, and yet he was no longer certain of how to be around them. 

He and Thomas had shared careful letters through his years-long absences, and a few brief reunions. But not a single word nor letter has passed between them these last two years. Not until their reunion on Harbour Island, only days before arriving in Nassau. James has endured so much in the last ten years, so much that he hadn’t told either of them, and in that time he’d felt himself change.

He was unsure if they would welcome this man, the one he could feel himself becoming. It was an insecurity that seemed to hoover over them every time he was in either of their presences, and he was grateful that their voyage here had been made separately, as he was uncomfortable revealing to them who he was when he was onboard his ship, and knowing how difficult it would have been to maintain their distance with all of that closeness. 

He could still remember how his heart had swelled the moment he received the news that Thomas was to be granted the governorship after all. Ten years, and Thomas had never wavered in his fight to reform Nassau, even when James had long since given it up. James could remember how adamant he was to be included after finding out, and how, to his surprise, Hennessey had supported him in this, even granting him command of an entire squadron of warships.

And yet, there was a part of him that still wondered what it was, exactly, that compelled him to make such a demand. Had it truly been his love of Thomas, and his prior commitment to this cause? Or was it due to the resentment he still felt towards those who had thwarted them in the first place? He wasn’t sure he knew for certain.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. James, who was the closest, opened it with a scowl. Standing on the other side were two rather ragged looking men, panting as they leaned against a heavy chest of drawers. Behind them was a cart filled with tables, chairs, and a few trunks.

They nodded respectfully towards James and then Thomas as they grabbed hold of the chest and slowly moved past him, leaving him to contemplate his own mind another time.

 

* * *

 

_Tortuga, Saint-Domingue_  
July 21, 1715

 

Hal Gates did not believe in luck or any such fanciful thinking. He didn’t believe that punishing spirits roamed the earth, nor that there were any to be found in the sea. The superstitions that had seized so many of his brothers had long since given up their hold on him. And while he knew that he had not led a virtuous life, he had lived by his own code of honor, an honesty of a sort, and had always endeavored to do right by his men. A part of him had believed that this would be enough to tip the scales. He had hoped that this would grant him peace, but he found that it did not.

Drunkenly, Gates mused that there was no place left for men like him. Not even in Tortuga, which had once been so rife with piracy, so awash with all manner of thieves, miscreants, and whores. Now, it would seem, only the drunks remained.

There was a hush that swept over the tavern the moment Charles Vane walked in. Everyone in there knew what he was, if not _who_ he was, and every one of them knew to be afraid. Gates, however, had no such fear. He’d spent too many years at sea to fear men like Vane.

“Captain Gates,” Vane said cordially as he approached.

“Captain Vane,” Gates replied, gritting his teeth as he did so. He’d never much liked the captain of the _Ranger_ , but he didn’t have the energy to tell him to fuck off. Truth be told, there was even a part of him gladdened to see a familiar face. Even if that face was Vane’s.

“I take it you’ve heard about the fate that has befallen Nassau?” Vane asked as he took a seat across from him.

“Why the fuck do you think I’m here?” Gates countered glumly. “Half my crew’s deserted, the other half too afraid to hunt.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t taken the pardon that they’ve offered,” Vane said evenly.

Gates just shook his head. “I don’t belong in their world. No, I’m beholden to no one, and that’s the way I’d like it to stay.”

“ _Their world,_ ” Vane growled with narrowed eyes. “That’s exactly what they think it is. They take what’s ours and call it theirs. I say we show them _exactly_ whose world this is.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gates asked, unable and unwilling to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“All those fine gentlemen taking Nassau in a matter of hours with no one to stop them,” Vane said as he leaned forward, a deadly edge to his voice. “They think they’ve already won.”

He didn’t say the rest, but Gates knew that Vane’s words weren’t just musings. They were an invitation. 

Despite himself, Gates sat up a little straighter as he contemplated them. After a moment he raised an eyebrow and said, “what is it, exactly, that you’re proposing we do about it?”

 


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, umm... can we all just ignore the fact that I posted the first chapter of this in fucking _2015_? (I have several excuses, some of them are even good ones! But I won't bore you with them) I doubt anyone is even still interested in this, but now that the last episode is about to air I've decided to pick this back up again. This season has given me renewed James/Thomas feels and I have nowhere else to channel them! I love "what if" AUs and really want to continue exploring this one. Just a heads up though, this isn't really a fix-it type fic. It's more of a everything's-fucked-up-in-a-different-way type of fic.
> 
> (Most of the rest of this fic is already written, but I know better than to make any promises about timely updates. All i can do is apologize for the ridiculous wait between chapters 1 and 2 and promise I'll try my hardest not to do that again.)

_Nassau  
_ July 29, 1715

The early morning sun cast a pale light onto the quieted streets of Nassau town. There were a few people about as James and Thomas walked in silence through the marketplace, but it was calmer at this hour than James had ever seen it.  They watched as a few of the merchants began to unpack their wares and set up their stalls. Every once in a while a cart would drive past, kicking up dirt as it did so, creating a gentle haze of dust flitting in the sunlight.

There was nothing here that Thomas did not approve of. No challenge too daunting that it could not be met, no building too badly destroyed that it couldn’t be rebuilt. No person so wicked that they couldn’t be redeemed. James had always marveled at Thomas’s compassion, his idealism, his ability to shape the world around him. Once, James had tried to do the same. Once, James had believed in that world. 

But now more than ever, James couldn’t help but feel as though he was being scrutinized. By everyone. The drunk petting a dog by a stoop as they passed; the lonely old woman scowling into her tankard even as the sun had only just risen; the small, parentless children as they ran through the streets with boundless energy and dirt-smudged cheeks. And every one of them a threat.  

“It’s a fine morning,” Thomas said pleasantly, but one look at his face was all James needed to know that he was holding something back.

“It is, my lord,” James answered absently, turning his gaze away from the man beside him and back towards the few people loitering in the alleyway as they passed.

“You are going to continue to call me that whenever we’re in public, aren’t you?” Thomas asked with a smile, though it was sad and perhaps even a little frustrated.

“Yes, my lord,” James replied automatically.

“Look around you, James,” Thomas snapped uncharacteristically as he stopped walking and gestured to those very same drunks and orphans that James had been observing so warily. “Do you really believe these people care even a little how you address me?”

James had stopped walking as well and turned to look Thomas in the eyes. “I do not do it for their benefit,” he replied coolly.

Though he had no mirror, he was certain that his own face was an impassive mask. He could feel his mouth harden and his eyes narrow. He knew he own expression well; he had used it so often when addressing his men. It was stern and unforgiving, and it was not one that Thomas had been expecting to receive.

“For whose benefit, then?” Thomas asked softly, though his eyes remained locked on James’s.

James was silent for a moment before finally admitting, “for my own.” His voice was equally quiet, though not so soft.

“How so?” Thomas asked, his own tone finding a little more steel.

“It is a reminder to myself of your place… and of my own.”

The truth was, even as a commodore, a rank that gave him authority over the other captains, James knew that he was in a precarious position. He had little power or influence outside of the assignment that he had been given, an assignment that can be so easily taken away. The men around him gave him the respect due to him, the respect that he had earned. But none of them had forgotten where he came from, and the higher he rose, the more eager they had become to watch him fall. Their resentment always seemed to lurk beneath their deference, and at times it felt as though nothing had changed from those earliest of days spent in Thomas’s study, watching with wary eyes, unsure of his footing, terrified of stepping out of place. 

Thomas looked pensive, and not entirely convinced. “It is a means of placing yourself at a distance,” he said after a moment.

James gave no reply and the two of them remained standing, motionless and staring at each other, for longer than they should have. People began shuffling past, though none appeared to give them any more than fleeting glances as they did so. James was the first to break the eye contact, his gaze following the growing crowd as they moved by. He made to start moving again but then Thomas spoke, too softly for anyone but him to hear.

“I had thought,” Thomas said with a little trepidation, “that after you returned from France…” He paused and James closed his eyes at the memories that had been unintentionally prompted. “I had thought that if you and I could get through that, we could survive anything.”

James opened his mouth to respond, but Thomas continued. “But then something changed in you, something else. I couldn’t ask before, but I am asking now. What is it that has prompted your distance? What is it that you haven’t told me?”

James clenched his fists, overwhelmed by painful memories and his own desire to calm Thomas’s worries, to give him everything he wanted. The last decade had not been kind of James. War, solitude, duty—all of these things had taken their toll on him. He had little desire to burden Thomas with any of it any more than he already had, but Thomas seemed determined the force the issue.

“Not here,” James said tersely, and without waiting for reply he began to walk again.  
  


* * *

_Off the coast of Carolina  
_ 11 February, 1706

 

The sun rose at precisely six bells in the morning watch. Though it was difficult to see for all the fog, James could just about make out the pinkish line that formed over the horizon as he stared, somewhat listlessly, out at the gray morning through his cabin windows.

The dreams of drowning never ceased. James supposes that it came with the territory. A man who made his life surrounded by the sea ought to hold a healthy fear of it, and it was not a difficult thing to fear. But the dreams seemed to come more often than not lately, and he had gotten little sleep that night.

He sighed as he tore his tired eyes away from the windows and glanced, almost habitually, at a shelf of books. _Meditations_ sat among them, but James fought the temptation to reach for it. Reminders of Thomas were becoming more difficult to bare the further away he got from him. It was not as though he believed that he would never see him again, it was just that he found that his world had become so much emptier without him. He tried to push out the memories, but in his tiredness it was a futile attempt; they came to him anyway. 

_There was a moment of disorientation as James peeled his eyes open to find the soft, early morning sunlight creeping into the room, momentarily unfamiliar. He had never stayed so long in this bed, never allowed himself to fall asleep in it before, and waking up in strange places for the first time was never a welcome sensation. But then he felt Thomas behind him, and his tense body relaxed. He allowed his eyes to close again, and he suddenly relished the stillness where before it had made him uneasy. Thomas’s hand was resting on his stomach, warm even as the air between them had cooled. James slid his own hand down, intent on taking the other man’s into it but something in him hesitated. He stopped for a moment, his hand hovering over Thomas’s, and he found himself bringing his own back down again, lightly grazing Thomas’s as he did so, letting it rest instead on the small section of bed in front of him._

_James didn’t know if was that gentle touch had been enough to wake Thomas, or if he had been awake the entire time, but James suddenly felt the warmth of Thomas’s fingers leave his abdomen. The loss of contact was only momentary, but he found himself feeling almost bereft until Thomas’s warm hand found its way to James’s broad, freckled shoulder._

_“I would have thought,” Thomas whispered sleepily into his ear, his hot breath quickly cooling on his skin, sending small goosebumps down his arms, “that for a navy man, you would have more scars.”_

_It was true, he bore only a few marks upon his back, small and inconsequential. James simply smirked and said, “I try not to give them cause to flog me.”_

_“Not even as a child? Were you always so disciplined?” Thomas asked, that same warm breath in James’s ear again, those same goosebumps making their way down his body._

_“Always,” James says quietly. And this was true as well. While his emotions had always run hot, he had somehow found a way to bury and conceal them._

_Thomas let out a small, gentle laugh. “Of course you were,” he conceded._

_“I never did like making mischief with the other boys,” James said, and there was a somber note to his voice, “I usually preferred to read when I could.”_

_James didn’t have to look at Thomas’s face to know the expression that had come upon it. It was the one, he was sure, that he always received from Thomas when a little more of his past was being unraveled, when he felt that a little more of his soul was being revealed.  
_

_“How did you learn to read?” Thomas asked, a note of false nonchalance in his voice._

_It was a question that had been hanging over them since their very first conversation. “_ More literate than any three boys I knew at Eton _,” Thomas had said, and while his words had not meant to insult, they had struck a nerve. Sensing this, he had avoided asking this particular question until now._

_“I taught myself, mostly,” James replied “I would spend hours a day studying the only book we had in the house.”_

_“And what book was that?” Thomas asked, intrigued._

_James paused before answering, knowing the weight of the words that he would speak next, not quite understanding what it was that was compelling him to even say them aloud. “Tuberville’s_ Catechism _,” he admitted at last._

_It had been his mother’s book, and though she had only been semi-literate it had given her comfort where little else could be found. She had died when he was young, too young to really remember her face or her voice, but he knew that it had been hers. Her father had kept it, though he could not read it himself._

_James felt Thomas’s hand still after he spoke the words. He turned slowly onto his back to find Thomas propped up on his elbow, looking down on him with a suddenly somber expression._

_“I didn’t know that you were Catholic,” Thomas said quietly._

_No one knew, not even Hennessey._ Especially _not Hennessey._

_“I’m not,” James said firmly. And then, “not anymore.”_

_It was illegal for a Catholic to serve as an officer, and so he had shed his faith as easily as he had shed his accent. It got buried, erased, like all those emotions that he fought to keep in check._

_“When I became an officer, I swore an oath against it,” he explained._

_Thomas’s grave expression remained as he looked down upon his lover’s face. James held his gaze for a second, his pale eyes meeting Thomas’s, searching for his thoughts behind his shadowed eyes._

_“I’m sorry that they took that from you,” Thomas said at last. His face didn’t quite relax but he rested his hand on James’s face, his thumb softly tracing over the sharp curve James’s cheekbone._

_“I never did hold religion very close to my heart,” James admitted, and it was true enough._

_There was another pause, long and a little tense. But after several moments passed with nothing but wind and the crackling of a dying fire he heard Thomas breathe a heavy sigh._

_“What, then,” Thomas said at last, his voice steady as he released the words slowly and carefully into the cold air, “_ do _you hold close to your heart?”_

_James never said a word in reply, but he knew as soon as their eyes met that he had given himself away._

There was a sudden knock at the cabin door, and the memory fell away.

“Landfall,” a timid voice said from the other side.

James glanced out of the windows again and saw that the fog had cleared and the sun was fully risen. In the distance, he could see a coast lined with evergreens, and a harbor that had already come alive with the bustle of merchant ships and fishing boats.

He raked his hand though his hair, still disheveled from his attempts at sleep, and sighed. This wasn’t the first time that he had found himself in a place that he’d rather not be, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he’d rather not know the price of disobedience.  


  


* * *

_Nassau_  
July 29, 1715  
  


Thomas’s private study was tidier than James had ever seen it. The reports and transaction records that he had been poring over the past few days with such fascination had been stacked neatly on a shelf and his desk was mostly clear except for an inkwell, a few sheets of paper, and a bundle of unopened letters.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Thomas said, his back resting against the double doors in a manner that suggested to James that there was no escape from this conversation. 

It was a futile gesture. James could have easily push his way past Thomas, with force if necessary, should it ever come to that.

_Not that it would have ever come to that_ , he told himself.

“I have a squadron of warships to command, an admiralty to appease, and a town full of experienced sailors and fighters that could, at any moment, choose to take up arms against us. I have been a little preoccupied.”

Though it was all true, it was a feeble excuse and they both knew it. There was no real reason that he couldn’t linger a little longer after council meetings, that he couldn’t dine with Thomas and Miranda on more than just formal occasions, that he couldn’t choose to spend a night or two, discreetly, in Thomas’s room rather than his own modest home that he now kept on the outskirts of the town. He had kept himself away when possible, and had been constantly on guard even in the moments when Thomas would draw in close. But at that very moment he could feel his heart start to pound a little harder in his chest as he looked at Thomas’s forlorn face, and every part of James was at war with itself. He wanted to take a step forward and he wanted to take a step back but he found himself caught in Thomas’s gaze, rooted in place, unable to decide which.

“Why are you here?” Thomas demanded, his eyes hard as they looked upon James’s.

“Beg pardon?” James asked, managing to find his voice in all the chaos that had been ignited within his own mind. He wanted to hate himself for being so taken after all his attempts to remain guarded and unaffected, but in the moment he somehow couldn’t. He’d missed this closeness, and he knew that every time he had told himself that he didn’t want it still had been a lie.

“The way we left things in London…” Thomas began and James couldn’t help but shift his gaze downward, away from Thomas and the accusations that Thomas had stopped short of voicing, as he recalled their last conversation before their recent reunion. It had been two years ago, but James could still remember the look of utter loss on Thomas’s face as realized that James had chosen to walk away for good.

“I had believed us finished,” Thomas continued. “So when I received word that you would be leading the naval squadron upon our arrival here, that you had _requested_ the position, you can imagine the utter joy I had felt. I had hoped that you had come to your senses, that you and I could be together here as we had always wished.”

James could hardly bare to stand there still, trapped in his own past mistakes and guilt. When he finally dared to look back up at Thomas he saw the pain on his face, naked and exposed, and suddenly the voices quieted and the decision was made before he could even register it. James took a step forward and placed his right hand gently on Thomas’s shoulder, pulling himself closer than they had been in too many years. He wanted to kiss him then, _would_ have kissed him then, if it had not been for the sudden knock at the door. 

The two of them moved apart in an instant and James backed away, carefully schooling his features. He glanced over to Thomas and saw traces of surprise and sadness on his face as one of James’s lieutenants entered, but the young man seemed oblivious to it.

“Yes?” James asked, a harshness to his voice that he had not intended.

“My lord,” the lieutenant nodded respectfully towards Thomas before turning his gaze to James and nodding again, “Commodore. There’s something the two of you ought to see.”

“What is it?” James demanded, suddenly tired and more deflated than he had felt in a long time. 

“There is a message being read publicly on the beach,” the lieutenant explained. “They say that it’s from a man named Charles Vane.”

 


	4. III

_Nassau  
_ August 5, 1715

 

Dust and sunlight drifted through unshuttered windows, and though it was only mid-morning, small beads of sweat had begun to appear on James’s brow as he sat on the other side of Eleanor Guthrie’s desk. The storms of the last week had finally died down and left in their wake an almost unbearable stillness. The last of the clouds had dissipated in the night, and when he awoke in the morning all was calm. If one strained hard enough they could usually hear the soft lull of the ocean even from this distance as the waves calmly lapped against the shore, but the tide was low now, and even the birds were silent. In this quiet, James couldn’t help but be even more aware of the underlying threat of chaos lurking, waiting to be unleashed. 

By now Charles Vane’s words had spread across the island. _To be a subject is to be a slave_ , had been the general message, _join us and resist; oppose us and you too shall fall._ But as of yet it was difficult to fully gauge its effect. For that, they had turned to Miss Guthrie. 

Thus far Eleanor Guthrie had been less than forthcoming in regard to Charles Vane, or just about anything else that might help them, and it had been Miranda who had suggested a different approach. _“You tore away the girl’s purpose and essentially told her that she no longer matters here,”_ Miranda had said chidingly. _“Give her a stake in Nassau’s future and she will be far more likely to cooperate with you.”_  
  
And so Thomas and James had arrived at the Guthries’ tavern seeking an audience. There was a marked scowl upon her sullen face as she threw open the double doors of her office. It was the same scowl that seemed permanently etched upon it whenever James had seen her in the past couple of weeks, but Thomas was looking at her, as always, with a warm smile.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Miss Guthrie,” Thomas said genially.

“I don’t see that I have much choice in the matter,” she said flatly, eyeing both Thomas and James warily as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Miss Guthrie,” Thomas said earnestly, “I have no wish to be a dictator in Nassau. I do not wish to _rule_ you or your actions here, but to work with you. What you have achieved here already is remarkable, and with so little support. I truly believe that you and I together can accomplish far more than either of us could separately.”  
  
“It won’t work,” Eleanor cut in.

“Excuse me?” Thomas asked in surprise, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he kept his gaze steadily on her. “What won’t work?”

“All of it,” Eleanor said. “Your entire gambit is founded on the belief that by offering these people legitimization, and legitimate employment, you can rid them of their criminal ways. I understand why you might think that, as it stands now you have the upper hand, to be sure. But you took the island when it was at its weakest. Those men you’ve given pardons to are, at this very moment, rebuilding _your_ fort, harvesting _your_ crops, tending to _your_ livestock. How long until they decide that they want something for themselves again? How long until they decide that they prefer to take for themselves rather than serve another?"

“So you believe that Captain Vane’s message will have an impact?” James questioned. “You believe that these men will offer resistance to us in support of the captain?”

Eleanor simply shrugged, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But as we speak rumors are spreading of a shipwreck that’s left gold strewn about the beaches of Florida. Men are deserting this place already, presumably to attempt to salvage some of that gold. Captain Vane’s message aside, how long until they realize that they don’t need your patronage, or your pity, or your pardons?”

It was clear to James then, and he was certain to Thomas as well, that the anger that she had displayed upon their introduction had not abated even a little. But Thomas held her gaze as he responded.

“While it is true that, with the reintroduction of government to the island, some of the men may find the new way of life a little daunting, and yes, some may even resist, a handful of malcontents is hardly cause to abandon our efforts to see the island put aright. Until Captain Vane’s message, the overwhelming majority of the island has been receptive to our presence, and despite the setbacks, I am confident that we can win the rest around peacefully.”

“Then you are naive,” Eleanor shot back.

Thomas only smiled wider at that. “You would not be the first to call me so.” He paused, and then said calmly, “and you may even be right. But I am not so naïve to believe that there is nothing more to Captain Vane’s plan than a strongly worded call to arms. Which is why we are here.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about my relationship with him, but I assure you, I am not privy to any of his plans. I’m afraid I can’t help you."

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but James beat him to it. “You seem unable to help us with a number of things, Miss Guthrie.”

Eleanor’s focus snapped to James. Her eyes narrowed again as she said, “I would have hoped that, with the resources at your disposal, my help would be the last thing you need. I am, after all, no longer of any consequence here.”

“Miss Guthrie,” Thomas said in a tone that was meant to pacify, and James could almost sense that Thomas was deliberately not looking in his direction, “no one in this room believes that to be true. As I said earlier, I believe far more can be accomplished if we work together. Your help is indispensable in this matter and all others regarding the interests of the inhabitants that you know so well. Which is why I would like to offer you a seat on the council.”  
  
Eleanor looked momentarily stunned. Whatever it was she was hoping to gain by withholding her support, a seat on the council was clearly not it. Whether this was because she did not want it or she simply didn’t believe it was something that would ever be offered, James could not have said.

It was a controversial decision, and one that James had been hesitant to agree to. Eleanor had proven herself capable, driven, and intelligent, but she had not proven herself trustworthy. Thomas and Miranda had both argued that trust could be built over time, but that her knowledge was invaluable.

As it turned out, Miranda had been correct in her assessment of Miss Guthrie, and a deal was struck. Eleanor would have a significant role in Nassau’s future, and in return she was to tell them all she knew of Charles Vane.

  


* * *

_Charles Town Harbor, Carolina  
_ February 11, 1706

 

Lt. Colonel William Rhett was not a patient man. So anxious was he to meet the new arrivals that hardly an hour had passed after the appearance of HMS _Alexander_ in the harbor that the colonel and his retinue requested, or rather demanded, to be let aboard to speak to its captain.

He had graced James with the curtest of nods as he surveyed the _Alexander_ ’s deck and all who stood upon it. James’s men were orderly, standing to attention as they ought to be, but still the sight of them did not appear to satisfy Rhett. His frown only seemed to increase the longer he looked.

By the time he turned his attention back to James the only thing he had to say was, “we have matters to discuss.”

James simply nodded, and led the colonel towards his cabin.

“I have written to the Lords Proprietor and the Admiralty for over a year requesting naval support,” Rhett said brusquely as the doors to the cabin closed behind him. “And this is all they send?”  
  
“You are lucky to even get this much,” James responded evenly. “England is at war, sir; her resources are limited.”

“Yes, we are at war,” Rhett all but shouted. “Of this I am well aware! This very town is soon to be at the forefront of it!”

James suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He had met men like this before—paranoid, aggressive, obsessed with their own perceived significance. He kept his judgements to himself, however, and let the colonel continue.

“I have been informed of an amassing of French and Spanish troops to the south. It won’t be long now before the Spanish launch a full-scale attack, and all we’ll have to fend them off is a poorly armed militia and a 28-gun frigate!”

“Colonel—” James began but his words were cut off by a sudden commotion above them. The sounds of jeers and shouts were becoming louder and more frenzied by the second.

Without hesitation, James tore through the cabin doors and nearly collided with his steward.

“Sir,” the young man said, panting for breath. He had clearly been running as fast as he could to get word of this to his captain.  
  
“What is going on up there?” James demanded, and the poor man paled at his harsh tone. 

“Deserter,” was all his steward said, still panting.

James rushed out to the main deck and found that most of the crew had beaten him to it. He pushed through the crowd before they could even register his presence, and when he got to the front of it he saw two men holding down another, while a third man stood over him. The boy they were beating was a tall, scrawny kid, no older than 16, and already unconscious from the blows that had been delivered to him. He was a quarter gunner, James recalled immediately, though his name escaped him.

“Stop this at once!” James bellowed. Silence swept quickly through the crowd and every man there became completely still, their eyes all fixed upon their captain.

“What is the meaning of this?” James demanded, struggling to keep his composure.

“He was trying to desert, Captain,” Dalton, the man who had done the majority of the beating by the look of it, answered. He was standing now, drawing himself up to his full height so as to tower over James as he looked him squarely in the eyes. “I stopped him.”

James spared another look at the boy. He still wasn’t moving and there was blood running down his nose and out of the corners of his mouth. Bruises were starting to appear on his swollen face and his nose looked to be broken.

“Is that so?” James asked of Dalton, his voice dangerously low, no longer able to keep his anger out of it. 

Dalton said nothing, though his fists were still clenched and his nostrils flared. There was a look in his eyes that James knew well. He wanted to strike. No, more than that—he wanted to kill.

“Lieutenant Welstand,” James called, never once taking his eyes off of Dalton. “Get the boy to the surgeon.”

James turned abruptly and addressed one of the marines. “I want these three in irons,” he said, gesturing to Dalton and the two men that had held the boy down.

“Captain!” Dalton protested. “He was attempting to desert! It was my responsibility to see that he did not succeed.”

“Put them in the hold,” James commanded, ignoring Dalton altogether.

The crowd had started to disperse by then, none of the other men wanting to be a target of their captain’s ire. When James finally turned to find Colonel Rhett, he did not need to search very far. Rhett loomed above him, watching from the quarter deck, observing the scene with a deepening frown. 

There was little need for Rhett to give voice to his feelings about James’s or the _Alexander’s_ presence there; the look on his face said it all. James couldn’t exactly blame him. It wasn’t as though he mistrusted his own abilities as a captain, but he was starting to understand Rhett’s position. In a place like this, on the outskirts of civilization, it was all too easy to feel forsaken. It made them vulnerable, and that was something no one here could afford.

  


* * *

_Nassau  
_ August 5, 1715

The bridge that closed the distance between the tavern and the brothel was narrow and poorly made. James had heard the creaks and groans of the wood as he stepped onto it, but continued on regardless. No one else seemed particularly bothered by its instability, and so he had chanced it. 

He had only wanted a breath of fresh air and some sunlight. Eleanor had finished telling them all she knew of Charles Vane, or at least, all she was willing to share, and she and Thomas had begun going over the records from her father’s store houses. James had decided that he was no longer needed and sought the open air instead.

The day was particularly hot, but James didn’t mind it. After two years spent in Boston, he was happy for some warmth. Though the humidity had been less welcome, he would take what sunshine he could get.

From this vantage point he could see most of the little town. The buildings were not particularly old, but they were well worn and many damaged beyond repair. There was a church with a burnt steeple and what looked to be several buildings with caved in roofs. His eyes drifted to the brothel below. Several of the girls were standing outside, though wearing significantly more clothing than they had been when the governor and his party first arrived. He watched as men approached, some stopping to talk, others heading straight inside. He recognized a few of the men from his own crew. They were drunk already, James could tell by the way they staggered when they walked and swayed when they stood.

James sighed. One of the drunken sailors was waylaying one of the women, had her backed against the side of the building. James watched as he became increasing aggressive. Her face registered fear, if only for a moment, before quickly becoming an expressionless mask. James contemplated shouting down at the sailor, to get him to leave the girl alone. Her kohl-lined eyes were still looking around for a way out, but before he could do anything, someone else intervened.

“Shepp!” James heard Lieutenant Manderly bellow as he approached the drunken sailor. “Leave her alone!”

The man froze, startled, before turning to face the lieutenant. The girl wasted no time in slipping away, and Shepp looked as though he would challenge the lieutenant. The rules were, after all, different here than aboard the ship, and in the eyes of the law Shepp had done no wrong.

Lieutenant Manderly was of a formidable size and strength, however, and the other man seemed to think better of it. James smiled at that, and thought back to the day he had found his now-lieutenant, scrawny and beaten nearly to death. He had come a long way since then. But then, they all had, really.

His thoughts turned again, this time to the warning he’d received on that day but hadn’t heeded. Rhett had been right of course; the Spanish had come.


	5. IV

_Off the coast of Carolina  
_ September 3, 1706

 

Billy woke to the sound of drums. He rose sluggishly from his hammock, bleary-eyed and confused as a cacophony of shouts and heavy-booted footfall erupted around him. It was nighttime still, judging by the lack of light leaking in from the hatchway, and there was a chill that had seeped into the lower deck, despite the sea of bodies that occupied it.

One after another men and boys ascended the ladder onto the open deck in a frantic dash to reach their stations. Billy was one of the last to arrive and all around him was a kind of controlled chaos. The loud, rapid rhythm of the drums and the piping of the boatswain that had reverberated throughout the ship had finally died, but the night air was still filled with the bellows of the officers and the indistinguishable shouting of the men as they hurriedly fell into position. Billy reached his own station quickly, grabbing hold of one of the cannon’s train-tackles and heaving in unison with the other men all along the starboard side.

A silence fell over them then, once the guns had been run out. Everyone seemed suddenly to be holding their breath, waiting for orders as an anxious tension filled the air and the only movement seemed to be that of the powder monkeys as they scurried about, weaving between the larger men with arms full of gunpowder and fearful expressions on every one of their young faces.

Billy spotted Captain McGraw standing at the bow, spyglass in hand, looking out onto the dark and tranquil water. Billy saw no sign of an enemy ship, but he supposed something must have been spotted, or else they would not be standing there as they were, anxiously awaiting some kind of battle.

 _I shouldn’t even be here_ , Billy thought bitterly. Had he been able to escape all those months ago, had he never been taken at all, he wouldn’t even be standing out on the cold, damp deck, running on only a little food in his stomach and even less sleep. It was not fear that prompted his anger, but the injustice of it. Forced to fight a war for a country that would subject its own to this? It was unconscionable. But then he saw his captain turn to join his crew on the deck and Billy felt a reluctant sort of respect for the man. The captain was a decent man, as good as any he had served under. He had never been unduly cruel, never bulked at hard work, and was never careless with his command. Above all, he was no coward. If Billy had no other option than to stand there and face down an enemy ship, he supposed there were worse commanders to follow into battle.

Just as Billy had begrudgingly began to accept his lot, a ship emerged through the fog broad on the starboard quarter, already close enough to be seen without the aid of a glass, and gaining on them quickly. The silence that had fallen once again as the men waited for their orders was short lived. Only seconds after the first ship appeared five more followed suit. As the ships came into range, the order to fire was shouted out into the night, but it was drowned out by the barrage of cannon fire that was brought down upon them, sending wood and guns and bodies hurtling across the deck in an instant.

The battle, as it turned out, was over almost as soon as it began.

 

* * *

_Nassau  
_ August 12, 1715

 

An awkward quiet fell over the dinner table despite Miranda’s best efforts to engage James in conversation. All of her questions were met with distracted half-answers, and Thomas was scarcely any better. Eventually she gave up and allowed the two of them to sullenly pick at their food in silence. It had been the first time James had agreed to stay for dinner alone, after much badgering from Miranda, but it had been decidedly less enjoyable than she had hoped.

“I had a visit from Captain Hume today,” Thomas said several long and agonizing minutes after Miranda had given up. 

James looked up from his plate, surprised. “What did he want?”

“The same thing he’s wanted since he arrived here: to leave. He believes the only way to do that is to ensure that all pirate threats are put down at once,” Thomas explained calmly, but James knew that the conversation was weighing heavily on him. “This includes Captain Vane.”

“Why did he come to you?” Miranda wondered. “Why not go to his superior?” She asked, looking at James.

“He has,” James said quietly, “and my response has always been the same, that our lord governor does not believe it wise nor just to sanction pirate hunting.”

Thomas gave him a sharp look then. He was upset, and James could already hazard a guess as to why. He gave a small, tired sigh, knowing what was coming. He knew that this conversation would have to happened eventually, but he had hoped to put it off a little longer.

“' _Our lord governor_ does not believe it wise’,” Thomas repeated slowly. “Do you no longer share this belief?” 

“No,” James said firmly, “I do not share this belief. Not when there are men out there actively trying to undermine your authority here.”

“If we allow for this,” Thomas said in a quiet voice, but James did not miss the frustration in it, “If we _seek out_ people because they _may_ commit a crime, how are we any better than the ones that came before us?”

“There is nothing wrong with putting a stop to people who might do us very real harm!” James insisted. He would have given anything not to have to be the one to voice this, but his conviction in this course of action remained intact. Even in the face of Thomas’s growing despair.

“Where will it end, James?” Thomas said, raising his voice for the first time. “We _must_ be the ones to end this cycle of violence, to show the rest the way towards lasting and sustainable peace. Peace achieved through violence is no true peace. Not when there are options still left on the table.”  
  
“If you do not act you are as good as inviting them to attack!”

“They are two ships,” Thomas said, “two ships against a naval squadron, a fort, and a militia. That message was an act of desperation, relying on the hope that they can pull others to their side. I admit, I was fearful at first that it might do us damage, but things are holding here. People are beginning to rebuild their lives here, and so long as we are fair, so long as we are just, the people of Nassau will have no reason to side with them.”

“You cannot honestly believe that they have nothing else in store, that they aren’t recruiting elsewhere,” James said, his own frustration rising.

"No," Thomas agreed, "I do not believe that it is all they have in store for us. But I do believe that we are more capable than anyone to address their concerns, to find a reasonable solution. Even if it is difficult, even if it takes time."

"There is no reasoning with them, Thomas!" James insisted. “If we give them an opening, they will take everything from us!”  
  
Thomas would hear no more of it. He dropped his fork into his plate with a clang and pushed his chair from the table. He walked away without a single glance in James’s direction. James felt the weight of what he had done in an instant, and regret began to take hold. He understood Thomas’s position, but he could not push away the fear that seized hold of him that if they did not act, they would soon regret it.

It took a moment for James to work up the courage to meet Miranda’s eyes, but when he did he found that she was looking at him reproachfully. Her lips were drawn tight, her eyes slightly narrowed. James wanted nothing more than to flee the table, but at last she spoke.

“I understand your concern,” she said, but her tone did not suggest in the least that she agreed with it, “and normally I would welcome your regard for our safety, but…” she paused, as if trying to find the best way to get through to him, “you should not be the one to argue this point. Not now. He’s not a child, and whatever his idealism might lead you to believe he’s not naïve. When the time comes— _if_ the time comes—that more extreme actions are needed to protect Nassau I assure you he will not stand in your way. That time has not come, and what’s more, you’ve just signaled to him that you don’t trust his judgment.”

“That’s not—” James began to argue, but Miranda cut him off.

“Regardless of your intentions that’s exactly what you’ve done. You think there aren't very good reasons for not wanting to sanction pirate hunting? It's more than principle, James. He's right, once it starts it won't end. It will bleed us dry to wage a war. And any goodwill we'll have amassed here will have been for nothing. Thomas has the whole world against him right now as he tries to prove to it that the impossible can be achieved. Now more than ever he needs you by his side, but for whatever reason you’ve been too afraid to fully stand with him, and I don’t think it has anything to do with Charles Vane or any other pirate for that matter.” 

James had nothing to say to that, no excuses to give, he knew that she would see right through them all.

“You don’t know how he pined for you all those years. He never could seem to put you out of mind,” Miranda said quietly. “Even as you seemed content to leave him, to leave _us_ , behind. I don’t know why you’ve come back into our lives, but I know it isn’t because you no longer care for him.”

James looked up at her again and saw that her eyes had softened, but she looked pained as well. Not for the first time James wondered if it would have been best for him to stay away. That though he felt the need to protect them, he also hated himself every time he felt forced to hurt them in any way because he could see what they could not.   

Miranda spoke again, quieter still, “just… let him love you. I do not know what it is that you are afraid of, but you must know how difficult this is for him, to have you here but not to have you.”  
  
“Weren’t you always the one that urged us to be cautious?” James asked, incredulous.

Miranda sighed, “I urged you not to put yourselves in a position where your relationship might be used against us. But it hasn’t been. We’re here now, like _you_ wanted. There is no reason why you cannot be with him now.”

“In the dark,” James said, looking away from her.

“Yes,” Miranda agreed sadly, placing a hand on his, “in the dark.” 

When he looked at her face again he saw that she was looking at him imploringly. Even after all this time she still cared so much and James couldn’t help but feel so very undeserving of it. Once, when he felt lost in a world not belonging to him, a world of expectation and propriety and regulations, he felt nearly crushed by the weight of it all. Of who he was and who he felt he ought to be. It had been Miranda who had opened a door for him, though Thomas had seen him through it. The two of them had helped him to shed so much of his pretense, but even as he did so he struggled to understand what she was to him. What he felt for Thomas had been a straight-forward kind of love. It had been heady and at times overwhelming, but easy to place once he had wrestled down the shame that had nearly destroyed him. Miranda, though? That was a love that he had always struggled to define, but felt no less profoundly. Least of all now, when he found himself feeling so lost again.

She rose from her chair and walked over to where he was still seated. He watched as she did so with furrowed brows as he continued to grapple with demons of his own making.

“Go to him,” She said, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. “And for the record,” she continued after a moment, standing upright again, “I’ve missed you, too.”

And with that she was gone, leaving him alone to contend with the turmoil that still raged within him, because try as he might he couldn’t help but see monsters where there were none.

 

* * *

 

 _Off the coast of Carolina  
_ September 3, 1706

The fog, which had been so heavy before, had begun to dissipate as the first sliver of daylight started to creep into the sky. White smoke hung in the air, so thick it made James’s eyes water, and his nose was filled with the smell of it. His ears were ringing so loudly that he could hear no other sounds, even as men lay dying all around him; all he saw were muted screams.

They came from St. Augustine. A fleet of six ships had set out only a few days before and had taken the _Alexander_ completely by surprise. There had been no word of an amassing of ships, no warning. Only Rhett’s paranoid suspicions, born entirely out of hysteria. The _Alexander_ had been escorting a couple of merchant ships when the enemy fleet came upon them. One of the merchantmen had fled, James knew, but the other had been torn to pieces, its men and cargo alike now laying at the bottom of the sea. The attack may have been authorized by the governor of Spanish Florida, but it had been a French ship that had boarded the _Alexander_ after the bombardment had ended, and it was a French captain whom James faced now. James had fought off as many men as he could, but his crew had been easily overtaken after the battering they had received from the cannon fire.

It was a losing battle from the first, but James had refused to go down without a fight. His men had shared this sentiment it would seem, as he saw them fight bravely as hundreds of men rushed over the rails from the other ship. James himself hadn’t even realized that he had been shot in the leg until he felt himself fall to his knees. He looked around him to see that only a few of his crew remained, mostly in small groups, huddled together, facing down the pointed ends of enemy blades. With barely enough strength left to keep himself from crumpling onto the deck, he held his own sword out to the other captain, hands shaking and slick with blood.

With a satisfied smile, the French captain took the sword that had been offered to him, and James felt the last of his strength leave him. He hit the deck with a muffled thud as darkness took hold.

 

* * *

_Nassau  
_ August 12, 1715

 

The house was quiet after Miranda left the dining table. James knew that there were servants around somewhere waiting to clean up after them, but he could neither see nor hear a single soul. He rose from the table slowly, still unsure of what to do next. Everything in him wanted to go to Thomas, to make things right with him, to rekindle what he had been determined to walk away from. But even Miranda’s reassurance couldn’t settle all of his doubts.

After a moment of indecision, he found himself on the stairway, the sound of his heavy boots on the wooden steps echoing out into the silent house as he made his way to Thomas’s bedchamber. He paused, still uncertain, his closed fist stopping just short of the door and stayed there for what felt like an eternity. Before he could talk himself out of it, however, the door creaked slowly open and James found Thomas on the other side of it, dressed only in a shirt, his hair disheveled but his eyes were alight even in the dark.

“How did you know I was standing out here?” James asked him.

Thomas gave him the smallest of smiles. “I could hear you coming. I thought that if I left you to stand there any longer you would talk yourself into leaving.”  
  
“And you would not want that?” James asked awkwardly, trying to gauge whether Thomas was still upset with him.

“No,” Thomas said, his smile broadening, coming to stand only inches away from him. “I would not want that.”

James closed this distance with a crushing kiss. It was if he was pouring years of need and longing and festering fears into it, releasing them from his body. Thomas accepted it gladly, leaning into it with his own hunger, bringing his hands to the back of James’s head, holding onto him as if he never wished to let go.

 


	6. V

_Nassau_  
August 13, 1715

 

Of all the things that Thomas loved about his new home, he loved the windows most, and he had never loved them more than that morning. He had awoken to an empty bed only to find James standing, naked, gazing out of one of those windows, as still as the air around him. No breeze coursed through the slightly open panel, and few sounds made their way into the room. But it was not the unnatural quiet that was troubling James. Thomas didn’t have to look at him to know that.

He did look at him, though. How could he not? Standing only far enough back so as not to be seen from the street, James’s naked body was bathed in light. It was still beautiful, still broad and muscular. But there were scars that now dominated the entirety of his back, so much clearer in the light of day than they had been in the low light of his bedside candle. They had faded with age, as Thomas had known they would, but still they were a gruesome sight. The long, telltale crisscross of brutal floggings made up the majority, but the other, smaller ones, were more difficult to guess at, and James had never been very forthcoming about their origins. 

As if sensing Thomas’s scrutiny, James turned around and offered him the barest of smiles. It was as melancholy as any Thomas had ever seen James give him, but he supposed he should be grateful to receive even that.

“There’s a storm on the horizon,” James said, and Thomas found he was almost relieved at the prospect. It would only be a matter of hours before the wind picked up, and with it the island would come to life again. But now was not the time for talk of the weather.

“Come back to bed,” was Thomas’s only response to the news.  

 James’s smile grew then, and he did exactly as he was bid.

 “I’m sorry about last night,” James said quietly after he had slid back underneath the sheets. Their faces were only inches apart but his eyes wouldn’t quite reach Thomas’s.

Thomas almost snorted at the sheepish apology. “Whatever for? I quite enjoyed last night.” In truth, it had been the thing he’d longed for most since James had walked out of his life two years prior, to be able to touch him again. As if to confirm that it had really happened, that James was really there, Thomas reached out his hand to touch James’s face, his thumb grazing over the deep-set ridge that framed his mouth.

 James almost seemed to tense under Thomas’s touch, and his gaze still fell below Thomas’s own eyes. “I meant before that,” James said. “At dinner. I apologize for arguing with you.”

“Don’t,” Thomas said earnestly. “I seem to recall finding our differing points of view to be the reason why you and I worked so well together all those years ago. I don’t see why that should be any different now.”

“Still,” James insisted, “I was in the wrong to speak to you like that, and… I think you have the right of it. What we’re trying to accomplish is meaningless if we start acting like the rest, treating every instance of dissent with an execution.”

“I see Miranda has gotten through to you where I could not.”

 James nodded, but he seemed uneasy. After a moment, he spoke again. “You care, so much… for everyone.” His face grew slightly sad as he said it, his gaze focused on the sheets that lay between then, and Thomas could see that there was something else, a thought silently creeping up in the back of James’s mind as he fervently willed it away. The struggle was plain in his eyes, but Thomas waited with patience for James to give voice to it. Finally, after more than a full minute of silence, and without daring to look back up again, James said. “I wonder that you have any room at all left in your heart for me.”

Thomas was taken aback by the comment. It had never occurred to him, not even once, that the thought had ever entered James’s mind.

 “You and I may not always see eye to eye on everything,” Thomas said, “and you may even come to doubt me, my leadership, my ability, my policies…” he forced James’s gaze upwards then, so that there would be no mistaking his words or his conviction. “But don’t you _ever_ doubt the depths of my love for you.”

“Even after all this time,” James said solemnly, “even after all the good you’ve inspired in me, we are still so different. Perhaps it is difficult for me to imagine how much you can care for others, when I care for so few.”

“You may not love many people,” Thomas said, his thumb gently caressing James’s cheek, “but when you do, you do so fiercely. What man could fault you for that?" 

“I think there are many men who would find fault in the way that I love,” he said with a quiet little laugh, but there was something in his eyes that was deadly serious.

There was a strange pause then. Thomas withdrew his hand from James’s face and turned over onto his back. He looked up at the canopy for a moment, a frown forming on his lips. Finally, without looking at James, he said softly. “You don’t still feel… ashamed? Of your feelings for me?”

“No,” James said firmly, without any hesitation.

Still, Thomas stared upward. “But there’s something still troubling you,” he said finally. “Will you ever tell me?”

Without warning James kissed him hard, as if to bury the question entirely, leaving them both breathless.

Thomas gave him a slow smile and said, “perhaps I should ask you difficult questions more often.”  
  
“Please don’t,” James said in a slightly strangled voice.

Thomas kissed him this time, soft and slow and made no further effort to unravel the mysteries of James McGraw. Whatever he had been through, whatever he had suffered, he had survived it, and theirs was a love that time and trauma could not undo.

 

* * *

_Central France, six days by foot from Marseille_  
November 10, 1710 

 

Only a single sliver of sunlight penetrated James’s dungeon cell. It radiated down from a small slit on the stone wall—too high up for him to see through—and everywhere around it was complete darkness. In his little world of solitude, after all rage and fear and reason had been expelled from him, carved away from years of isolation and hunger, all that there was left for him to do, as he laid his battered body down upon the ground, was to listen.

The first of the winter storms had come early that year, and the sounds of the endless drip of water as melted snow trickled into his cell echoed off the walls and reverberated around the emptiness. The wind raged wildly as it beat itself against the thick stone walls of the fortress, and somewhere in the distance, James could hear the cries of hawk as it searched for its prey.

There was no peace in solitude, and there was no comfort to be found in this place. His dirty clothes hung off of his gaunt frame, tattered almost to shreds, and the coarse material of his shirt was rough against the still open wounds of his back. They were not fresh but they had not healed yet.

It seemed a lifetime since he’d seen anything but these walls, a purgatory without end. Four years had come and gone with no prospect of release. There was a time, when aboard his ship for longer than he could stand, that he would pray for solid ground. But in his cell, he longed for the ocean and the feel of wood beneath his feet. The smell of salt water that had seemed to be forever in his nose was gone from him too now, replaced by the stench of his own filth and the soggy straw that coated the dungeon floor.

The voyage to France after his capture had been long, but not entirely unpleasant. His ship, and his crew, had been entrusted to a young lieutenant who had been remarkably capable despite his age and inexperience. Lieutenant Frémont was friendly, well-mannered, and had shown James every courtesy due to him. The crew that had accompanied Frémont had been comprised of men from two of the French ships that had been involved in the attack on the _Alexander_. They had not been many, but they far outnumbered the survivors of James’s own crew, and so there had never been any question of revolt.

Their captors had been kind, then. They had not been callous in their victory, nor had they been cruel with the men whose lives were now in their hands. They had fed them what they could, and had seen that they were attended to when needed.

But good treatment of the captive crew had changed the moment they reached Marseille. James and the crew had been taken almost immediately to Château d'If. The fortress housed a number of English prisoners, waiting in squalor to be exchanged.

He did not have to wait long there. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he would come to miss those crowded cells. For reasons that were never shared with him, he had been shunted off to another prison in another part of the country. It had taken nearly a week by foot to get there, in the autumn cold, with threadbare clothing and well-worn shoes. No one ever told him where he was headed, perhaps because he spoke only a little French, or perhaps because they did not feel that he even needed to know. All he knew of his destination had been acquired by looking at the stars on nights when they could be seen, telling him that they had headed roughly north-northwest, and little else.

The journey had been difficult, but James had welcomed it. After weeks spent in a dungeon, he had appreciated the fresh air and the chance to _move_. But the nights had been frigid and windy, and his captors taciturn and unfriendly. Occasionally he had seen other prisoners along the way, but those were brief moments in which he was unable to communicate with any of them for very long.  The guards had seemed anxious at the idea of too many prisoners together, especially those that had been taken captive from recent battles.

Another fortress waited for him at the end of that journey, perched upon a high hill and looming over a nearby village. It was hundreds of years old by the look of it, but had yet to fall into ruin. The villagers took only a little notice as the newest prisoner was marched through town on unsteady legs. The dungeons here were much the same as the one he had come from, though in this place he had received a cell all to himself.

Over the years, he had made several attempts at escape, and every time he had been thwarted and punished. The latest flogging head been the worst, and the punishment had done its job. James knew that he would not be trying it again. Even before that his strength had been sapped by years of isolation and idleness, as well as the occasional beatings and starvation. Four years of it had taken more of a toll than he thought possible as he struggled to keep hold of his sanity.

There were only a few other English prisoners here, and none had been there as long as he had. Most came and went within a matter of months, traded away easily by the French whose own prisoners of war far outnumbered the English. His own crew had never even set foot here, all were released within a matter of weeks of arriving in Marseille. All except for him.

It had made no sense. He was the highest-ranking officer among them, by rights his release should have been the first to have been secured, and yet he had been forced to stay behind as the others left. Some had been reluctant to leave him, but ultimately, none were willing to die there when they had a way out. James couldn’t blame them for that.

He had begged for something to write with, to send word back home. He had become convinced that the reason he remained was that, for some reason or other, the Admiralty believed him dead. He had tried in vain to be allowed to write a letter. When that was denied he begged, threatened, even attempted to bribe several of the guards to write the letter for him. None of them complied. And most had sneered at his requests.

Even after years amongst many of the same faces, James had little luck making friends of them. Most guards were poorly paid, and even more poorly supervised. They often took easily to a friendly captive with a little to offer them by way of company and conversation. But these men were different, they took no interest in his plight, even less in him as a person. They came and went once a day, sometimes less, with only meager amounts of food, and that was the extent of their interactions.

Except when he’d tried to escape. There had been no joy, at first, in administering his punishments. But that had changed over the years. Soon it had become a sort of game to them, and most of them came to revel in their triumph. Still, he could usually make out a displeased face or two, sympathy worming its way into their hearts. It had been what he had been counting on during the last of his attempts. Not that he would be successful, but that the punishment would be so severe that he could win over at least one of the men into showing him even the smallest bit of mercy.

It had not worked. After the flogging James had been dragged back into his cell and dumped onto the cold floor and left to rot. No surgeon had been called this time, as they had been after his other more violent beatings and lashings, and it did not take long before his wounds had begun to fester. It would seem that they were happy to let him die in there and be rid of him for good.

And so, he resigned himself to the darkness; kept still and listened. In recent days, the sounds were always some variation of the same. The endless cycle of trickling water, of battering wind and the hawks that braved it. But several days after the flogging, the routine was broken when he heard the clang of keys echoing down the passageway and the sound of footsteps come to a halt before his own thick wooden door.

He had been fed already that morning, his meal pushed hurriedly beneath the door, most of it spilling onto the floor beside it, and since his jailers only bothered to feed him once a day, James had not been expecting this visit.

The door opened, and James watched, still immobile, as a young guard came through it. He looked unmistakably nervous as he approached, but James was no threat to anyone anymore.

“Monsieur?” The man whispered cautiously as he approached. “Are you awake?” He asked in thickly accented English. James supposed that it was too dark for the man to be able to properly see James. His eyes had not adjusted like James’s had.

“I am,” James said, but his voice was thin and barely carried even the few feet between them. It had been too long since it had been used, and his throat was dry and raw.  
  
The man took another step forward and stopped in the center of the cell. The small sliver of light fell on him then, bathing him in sunlight. He was very young, perhaps even a teenager. There was not even a hint of facial hair, and the hair on his head was a pale blond and very curly.

“Can you write?” He asked hesitantly. It was only then that James saw what was in his hands. A single sheet of paper in one, and a small inkwell and quill in the other. He reached out both hands and offered them to James and for one brief, absurd, moment James thought he looked like an angel, standing in the middle of the cell, illuminated by that single beam of sunlight in the dark, his blond ringlets set alight like a halo, and offering up the one thing James had prayed for above all else.

If only he could write a letter, he had told himself over and over again. He could let Hennessey know that he was alive. Hennessey would surely demand his release, and all would be well again. He had pictured it in his mind endlessly. So much so that he had begun to dream of his release at night, only to wake and find the crushing disappointment of reality once again.

When the opportunity finally came to him to write a letter that would see him to freedom, he did not take it. He forced himself through the pain to sit up and accepted the items with shaking hands. But rather than writing to Hennessey, he found himself writing to Thomas. James was not a great believer in religion. Not his mother’s brand, nor his queen’s, and so, he had not truly expected an answer to all of those countless prayers. But in this desolation, in the agony of the past few days, he had found himself believing in something else altogether. He knew not what it was, only that it was not merciful, and that it had sent him there to die. If that be the case, he thought as he slowly scribbled his goodbyes to Thomas, then his last words would be given to the man he loved. The letter would be barely legible, but that hardly mattered anymore.

 

* * *

_Nassau_  
August 16, 1715

 

The storm had come and gone in less than a day, but it had breathed new life into Nassau. Even at mid-morning, the Guthrie tavern was already more crowded than James had seen it in the past couple of weeks. The island seemed to hum again, for better or for worse. Only that morning, on his walk over here, James had already seen two drunken brawls in the middle of the street, with crowds of rowdy onlookers cheering them on excitedly. The tavern itself seemed no less disorderly. A fight was brewing between two of its patrons, though it was quickly broken up by Mr. Scott who shooed them both out with a stern look and a pointed glance in James’s direction. It would seem that, for some at least, his authority still had some weight.

James had come alone that morning, wishing to speak with Eleanor without Thomas present. James was not lying when he told Thomas that he had reconsidered his position, that he believed that they should not seek the wayward pirates out. But, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t gather all the ammunition he could, to be fully prepared for the time when worse would surely come to worse.

James knocked twice and waited for Eleanor’s muffled response. When he entered, he saw that Richard Guthrie was there, seated on the chair across from Eleanor. He stood when he saw James, but Eleanor remained seated. The room was tense, Eleanor shooting her father a disdainful look before nodding her greeting at James. 

“I must speak with Ms. Guthrie alone, please.” James said as he entered, holding the door open for Richard.

Richard didn’t seem inclined to move, however. “Surely, whatever it is you have to say to her would best be said to me.”

“I’m afraid that wasn’t a request,” James said sternly. “Please leave us.”

Richard seemed taken aback, but he did not protest further. He returned Eleanor’s scathing look and gave James one of his own as he exited, straightening his wig as he did so.

It occurred to James then why it was that Eleanor had resisted them at first. For her, civilization brought with it a number of constraints. Not just of government or the laws restricting how she made her money, but with legitimacy there suddenly came a host of men telling her what she ought to do. Her movements, her mannerisms, her dress were all being scrutinized like never before. And then there was her father. The man who had been indifferent to her for nearly her entire life was now attempting to rein her in, to wrestle from her control over a business empire that was, by law, his. For a woman who had lived so freely, she was now bound in so many ways.

Nassau was meant to be his and Thomas’s freedom. He had said as much ten years ago, when the plan was first conceived, when thoughts of leaving London and starting over seemed a beautiful dream. But in the harsh light of reality, he could not help but wonder if a thing could truly be called freedom if it meant another's confinement.

“What is it that I can help you with, today?” Eleanor asked after the doors were shut again, breaking James free of his thoughts. Her tone wasn’t as disdainful as it once was, but it wasn’t entirely friendly, either. 

Before he could even reply, he was interrupted by a sharp knock on Eleanor’s door. Mr. Scott entered immediately, without waiting for a response. Eleanor did not appear at all irritated by the interruption, though there was a concerned look on her face when she saw his own.

He seemed uneasy as he approached, his mouth drawn into an apprehensive frown. 

“What is it?” Eleanor asked.

“I have just received word from Captain Lawrence,” Mr. Scott said gravely. “Two of the consortium’s ships have been attacked.”

“What? By who?” Eleanor asked, stunned.

“Lawrence says that it was the _Ranger._ "

“Where?” James demanded.

“Not far from here,” Mr. Scott said, turning from Eleanor to James. “Just south of Eleuthera.”

“Shit,” James breathed, closing his eyes.

Just as he had feared would happen, Nassau ships had been attacked, too close to Nassau’s shores to be ignored. Like it or not, there was no choice now but to respond in kind.


End file.
